


Dangerous

by bananamelon



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Blow Jobs, Come Eating, Drunken Shenanigans, Frottage, Hand Jobs, Idiots in Love, Mildly Dubious Consent, Semi-Public Sex, anyways theyre drunk and get in on in the living room, nervous gay!keith, reposted with the full version bc ya
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-31
Updated: 2018-08-31
Packaged: 2019-07-04 22:34:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,883
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15850785
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bananamelon/pseuds/bananamelon
Summary: Lance. His name is Lance. Lance, with the ocean eyes and freckled constellations. Lance, with the symphonic laughter, which gets squeakier the harder he laughs. Keith knows this name like his own, but the mere idea that all of the night’s anxious arousal can be traced back to the nameLanceis unforgiving, and moreover, humiliating. Except, it’s not tonight—it’s all of his nights. Too many to count, and too embarrassing to even try.





	Dangerous

It’s dangerous, Keith discerns.

He’s on fire. The thumping music, the alcohol, the thrill of the night all young adults feel when they’re rid of their worries—feels like freedom. Feels like having a good fucking time, that’s what, and nothing is going to stop Keith from relishing the moment. Not curfew, not homework, and not electric shocks pulsing with his pounding heart every time he shoots nervous glances at the cute guy dancing at the edge of the crowd. Keith doesn’t dance—not at all—but he inches closer, anyway, to the swarm of bumping bodies in the middle of the compact backyard.

He makes it casual, pretends like he doesn’t have ulterior motives; moves a little at a time, taking sips from his red solo cup, swaying as if he’s familiar with whatever popular song is playing over the large, rectangle speakers. He sways and hopes no one’s watching, dear God, because just one look is all it takes to understand that Keith has never truly known the concept of rhythm. Keith dares one more glance in Cute Guy’s direction as means to check his progress.

 _Oh god,_ they’re so close now. Not even a yard away. _Go slow,_ Keith reminds himself, exhaling a shaky breath. _Let the alcohol take the wheel. Fuck, just stop worrying, there’s no rush. You have all night, Keith. So just—_

“Whoa, fuckin—”

Keith’s reassuring monologue is abruptly shattered by a particularly wasted nobody that slams into his back a little too harshly, sends him stumbling forward to collide with a number of other bodies like he’s a bowling ball. Thank God he’s already drank most of the booze in his cup. It’s blurry at first, for a second or two, but when Keith recollects himself, he’s relieved to notice that he hasn’t inconvenienced everyone’s bumping or humping or whatever-the-fuck. Or, almost everyone.

“Ugh, dude, what— _Heyy,_ Keith, buddy, you made it!”

It’s Cute Guy. Of course it’s Cute Guy. How cliche.

Lance. His name is Lance. Lance, with the ocean eyes and freckled constellations. Lance, with the symphonic laughter, which gets squeakier the harder he laughs. Keith knows this name like his own, but the mere idea that all of the night’s anxious arousal can be traced back to the name _Lance_ is unforgiving, and moreover, humiliating. Except, it’s not tonight—it’s all of his nights. Too many to count, and too embarrassing to even try.

“I didn’t know you came!” Lance words are slurred as he twirls on his heel to face the dumbfounded man, bearing his million dollar grin that’s clearly seen a douse of liquor or two. His flushed face kicks the wind right out of Keith’s lungs. He’s stopped swaying, just one stagnant body in a sea of rasping pelvises, but is clearly too distracted to notice.

“You little _liar,”_ another voice chimes in. It’s Pidge, who slings an arm around Lance’s neck from behind, not nearly as smashed as the surrounding party-goers. “You literally wouldn’t stop nagging about when he’d get here, Lance.”

The sunboy goes red in the face, cherry hues darkening the flush in his bronze skin, and he feebly attempts to shoo Pidge away with an aimless swing. _“Shhhut up!_ D-Don’t listen to her, Keith, she doesn’t— she doesn’t know what she’s talking about.”

“Oh, _I know,”_ Pidge keeps Lance in a chokehold for a minute, makes him squirm a bit, not quite on the verge of actually hurting him. Then she lets go with a snicker, an knowing glint in her eye that makes Keith’s stomach churn. Pidge pats a hand on Keith’s shoulder, leaning in to whisper one last thing to him, “That poor bastard’s got it _bad_ for you, Keith. I’ll leave him to you,” and then she disappears around the crowd.

Now it’s just Keith and Lance. Keith and Lance, and Keith’s tireless heartbeat. The stupefied man can’t hear the music but he feels it, how it judders in his rib cage and sends sparks to his fingertips, otherwise completely numb to anything that isn’t Lance. Keith momentarily forgets about the cup in his hand until it’s knocked to the ground by a girl who’s consumed by the hammering music. He doesn’t care, though, only breaks his daze to glance down at the toppled red plastic, spilling its contents into the grass.

His attention is promptly grasped once again by a pie-eyed Lance who fills the space in Keith’s now-empty hand with his own. Keith shivers at the feeling of his warm palm, damp with sweat, feathery fingers lacing into his own rigid digits.

“Don’ worry about it, baby, I gotchu,” Lance slurs, a beautiful, debauched smile playing with the corners of his lips. He lifts his own cup to meet Keith’s lips and tips without warning, forces Keith to accept the beverage lest he make a mess of himself. With indigo pearls go wide as he struggles to gulp, gulp, gulp, the nasty stuff down.

Dangerous.

Lance is the gregarious type—social, knows everybody, leaves little pieces of himself behind so he has something to go back to. Great at simply talking. Great at holding gazes and holding hearts, beating softly in his tender hands, keeps them alive with the vitality in his sweet words alone. Lance is the type who doesn’t shy away from love, an admirer; inamorato. The type of gift that people grow attached to in the first conversation. A careful and eager loverboy who would set himself on fire to keep his sweetheart warm.

“Oh, _sweetheart.”_ The slurred words bring Keith back to earth. He’s finished whatever was left in the cup, wipes his mouth with the sleeve of his jacket. It burns the back of his throat but not quite like Lance’s gaze does. “That was _perfect.”_

Lance drapes loose arms around Keith’s neck, lets his weight dangle there, eyes flicker from lips, eyes, and lips again. The tipsy man rakes his teeth over his lower lips, flicks his tongue out to dampen it. Keith falls victim to his bedroom eyes shielded by caramel hair that got a couple shades light and a couple inches longer over this past summer. Keith inhales a sharp breath, swallows his anxiety to save for the morning after, and slides roughs palms to rest on Lance’s hipbones. The latter gladly welcomes the contact, a breathy giggle slipping from his red lips.

“See?” Lance brings his face closer, dawning a devilish grin, the smell of liquor blurring Keith’s senses. His words are hushed like he’s telling secrets, leans real close to whisper into Keith’s ear to guarantee he’s heard. “Now you’re gettin’ into it.” Lance attempts to start dancing again, to pull Keith into the vibe with him, to bump bodies like everyone else in the condensed backyard. Keith doesn’t move, though—can’t move, really—his knees are buckled tight, joints locked into place. All he can do it stare, mouth gaping open as if he’s always on the verge of saying something.

“Not feeling it, babe?” Lance pouts, sticks out his plump lower lip like it’s an invitation, gives Keith those award winning puppy eyes. It does something to Keith—has been for awhile now—as his heartbeat pulsating in his groin can confirm.

“N-No, it’s just—” Fumbles a bit, unable to focus in this scenario. “It’s just that I _don’t dance,_ Lance. Don’t party, don’t— don’t _drink,_ really.”

“Then why are you here?” The words sound almost sober, startling Keith. Lance cocks his head to the side with a slight frown. Again, Keith is near speechless, mind racing to think of what answer he has to formulate to not let this night go to shit.

It’s dangerous. Keith eyes are darting everywhere now, from the beer coolers off to the side to the speakers on the other. Sirens are going off inside his head, red lights; every single possible signal that tells him _stop, turn around while you still can._ He doesn’t. Not tonight, not when the opportunity is as perfect as this.

“To see…you,” Keith swallows his pride. He begins to doubt if his words were even audible over the blaring music when Lance doesn’t say something. The tipsy man wears an unreadable expression that diverges from his drunken demeanor. Their eyes remaind locked, trying to scan one another, to read what lies beyond the blue.

“Keith,” Lance says. Keith doesn’t hear it, just reads what looks like his name on Lance’s pretty lips, one syllable to get his heart racing again. Lance leans in slowly, strategically, his lush, half-lidded eyes only shutting further.

Keith panics. Stumbles backwards a step or two, hands now on Lance’s forearms to grip tightly. “L-Lance,” he breathes out, gulping down the dryness in his throat, and for a moment, he thinks he sees disappointment cross Lance’s face. Something a little like heartbreak. “Not here,” Keith hisses to cover up his mistake, glancing around like they’re being watched from afar. They’re not—truthfully, no one could give a single shit about two boys making out when so many people already are.

“Then, inside,” Lance quickly resolves, more of a demand than a suggestion, and abruptly begins dragging Keith away from the crowd. It takes Keith a while to realize that they’re going _into the house._ He doesn’t object, though, and continues to trip over himself as he’s lead away to a more convenient setting.

_Dangerous._

“Lance!” Keith tries calling out in vain, heartbeat now a racking up a whole symphony in his ears in time with the thump of the music. Lance trudges on with a goal until he’s made it to the glass door and goes to slide it open. The first time, his hand slips. A grunt. The second time, with much more effort, the door slides open heavily, followed by the screen door that budges without difficulty.

As he trips over the few inches-high frame, Lance forcibly stumbles into the house, subsequently pulling Keith in with him. _“Shit—”_ The curse slips from the angel’s mouth as he nearly plummets face-first into the carpeted floor, saved by Keith’s quick reflexes. Keith allows himself to feel heroic after the split second of screaming anxiety subsides, which almost instantly evaporates when he realizes that he’s got Lance _in his arms._

Ah, yes, the iconic pose of rom-coms, where the protagonist swoops in to save his ladylove from a potential disaster as she loses her footing, a strong arm wrapped tightly around her waist. Her hands find their way to his broad shoulders, his flexed biceps, and they rest there delicate, dainty. Except this is certainly no rom-com and Keith is no protagonist, let alone granted the right to call himself a man. He’s just playing the part, and in place of a damsel in distress, he’s got an idiot named Lance. A beautiful, beautiful, shitfaced Lance who clings to Keith’s arms like a life line, the polar opposite of delicate and dainty.

Keith’s predicament is rightly hilarious. A true comical phenomenon, because no matter how rose-colored his vision becomes when thinking fondly of the man in his arms, Lance is truly just a dork. A blockhead who’s flirtatious advances on the local women knows no bounds, a pun enthusiast, a Mama’s boy—the type of person who laughs at his own jokes. Terrible comebacks. Cheesy pick-up lines. Easily flustered. Lance is, simply put, a mess.

“Dude, ‘m so fuckin’ tanked right now, man, you don’t even under _stand.”_

_A mess._

“Keith, buddy, I’m like, super into you right now, but can you, uh, put me down, maybe? On the couch?” Lance waves an aimless finger to somewhere behind him. Fortunately, with the powerful combination of eyesight and common sense, Keith can navigate his way around lamp and coffee table to the beige couch in the middle of the room.

Lance’s words are beginning to make sense, Keith notices, though his behavior remains the same. His... _language,_ though— _I’m super into you right now? Baby? Sweetheart?_ It’s a miracle Keith hasn’t gone into cardiac arrest. He tries to force the pet names through one ear and out the other, but they settle before they can exit, making home deep in his memory bank to forever circulate in his brain. Keith sets his bashed gem on the couch before the strength in his arms drain completely. He, himself, is near plastered point, grounded in the buzz of alcohol, but he is adamant as playing the role of the sober friend for Lance, relying on the lingering unease in his gut to keep him alert.

“I’ll, uh,” Keith’s eyes dart around the room. “I’ll go find you some water.” As he turns to stagger toward the kitchen, a hand catches his sleeve. It’s a loose grip, something to easily shake off, but it makes Keith halt dead in his tracks.

“Keith,” Lance speaks, his honey voice sending shivers up Keith’s arms. His name had never sounded so _tempting,_ it almost makes him swoon. “Don’t go.”

“It’ll just be for a minute,” Keith urges, the words leaving his own dry throat hoarse, desperate.

“No,” the drunk man whimpers, feeble fingers latching stubbornly onto worn fabric of a sleeve that doesn’t belong to him. Lance begins to sit up, props himself on his elbow just enough to credit his plead, watery blue eyes posing a threat to Keith’s self-control. “Don’t go, Keith,” Lance repeats.

A sigh that signals he’s lost. Keith reluctantly takes a sit on the opposite end of the couch, and no matter how much space he tries to put between them, the upholstered furniture can only make room for so many grown, drunk men. Lance, knowing he’s won, rests his legs on Keith’s lap and heaves himself upright, carelessly overriding the barrier of personal space. The flashing lights are back, _danger, danger, danger;_ the sirens ring through Keith’s ears. Cold sweat accumulates at the back of his neck, body frozen.

Lance brings a daring hand to Keith’s face, a soft thumb brushing against a chapped bottom lip, forces the other to make eye contact with him. The foreign digit intrudes through Keith’s lips, fingernail lightly bumping into locked teeth. Keith opens his mouth. Doesn’t know why—doesn’t question it—just _does._ The whole night so far has been Keith _just doing_ —just drinking and just feeling and just willingly being courted by the absolute jewel he’s been yearning for for some time now.

“Keith.” The syllable leaves Lance’s lungs in a breath of air. His finger slips futher in the warm cannal, presses against the wet tongue that greets it with a shy flick. Keith is panting now, eyes growing heavy. His jaw quivers, threatening to shut. “Keith,” Lance repeats, voice thick and syrupy, he leans in closer. What else can Keith do but sit like a dead fish and choke on his breath as he tries to surpress the undeniable anticipation welling in his stomach?

It’s a soft caress, as soft as air; something forgettable. Keith’s mind can barely grasp the situation, would normally be nit-picking for every possible sign that this is fake, that all of this is fake, but Lance is the most real thing he’s felt in a long time. Half-lidded indigo scans over the copper face just a hair away, settling on closed eyelids before following suit. Keith moves with it, exhales thickly through his flared nostrils as his jaw goes slack, completely captivated by the magnetic kiss.

Lances pursues further, brings two palms to press against Keith’s rib cage, gradually advancing until he’s lying flat on the other. Chest to chest, one hasty heartbeat against the other. When Keith feels the slick warmth of a tongue swipping across his upper lip, it takes very little contemplation for him to part his mouth, secretly ready and eager. He welcomes the glow of Lance’s tongue, allows his own to flick and slide against it playfully, passionately. Lance is the first to make a noise—a quiet whimper, high-pitched and rich with desperation. It makes Keith grunt, makes his throat and ripped black jeans tighten simultaneously.

Soon, ten slender fingers are entangling themselves in Keith’s mop of inky hair, combing through clumps of it, occasionally pausing to give a little tug. Another pair of hands slip down Lance’s spine, glides over the slight dip of his waist and his refined hipbones, as if searching for somewhere to rest, pull, squeeze. They break contact for a heated moment, damp breath thawing the little space between them, daring to crack open their eyelids just to take a peek. Just to witness the masterpiece they had contructed—or more accurately, destructed. Two pairs of eyes take the time to scan each other’s faces and it’s a long minute before they finally meet.

“Lance,” Keith breaths, voice hoarse and _wet_ and panting. Instinctively, as if that’s his cue, Lance leans in again, much quicker than before. This time, Keith cranes his neck, tucks his chin to his chest. “L-Lance, you’re drunk,” he explains. “I mean, w-we’re drunk—absolutely wasted—a-and you can’t exactly, y’know,” Keith glances away. “You can’t _give consent_ when you’re drunk.”

“It’s just a kiss,” Lance replies too quickly, the frenzied look of desire never leaving his face.

“Is it?” Keith asks. Lance ponders the question.

“I consent to it,” he finally answers, exhales heavily through his nostrils.

“Not legally,” Keith shoots back.

Lance grows impatient, his lapis oculi filled with pure woe. Something in Keith’s chest shifts. “You have my consent, baby, you know it. We…both want this, right? And it’s been going amazing so far, so…” He trails off, his palms matting down Keith’s hair not unlike a frustrated puppy, pushing back black locks from indigo eyes before settling just above his forehead. “Please, Keith.”

“Lance, we— _nngh!”_ Before Keith can utter another protest, Lance suddenly weighs his angular hips onto Keith’s, grinds taut fabric and muscle together. Keith trembles, squeezes his eyes shut upon the friction, his jaw falling open. “L-Lance, w-what are you—” Another grind. “Oh, f-fuck...”

“You like that?” Lance coos, near-dripping tongue peeking out from reddened lips. He leans in to press a firm kiss on Keith’s ear. “Feels good, doesn’t it? Rubbing together like this? Just let it happen, Keith. Don’t worry about the technical stuff, just—” _Griiind._ “Feel.”

Keith’s gut churns with conflict, a headache threatening his frontal lobe. Lance _sounds_ sober, or in the least, enough to form coherent sentences. Still, there’s something not quite right with the situation. The alcohol was still running through their bloodstream with nothing having flushed it out yet, let alone an opportunity to drain it. Lance certainly didn’t smell sober, either, and neither did he. It’s dangerous, and Keith knows better than to fuck himself over because he got a little too drunk with a “friend from college,” but his throbbing dick says otherwise. His beating heart says otherwise.

A hand shoots down to grab at Lance’s crotch. He curls inward at contact, a startingly loud moan tearing through his throat. “If you wake up in the morning and completely forget about tonight,” Keith mutters, “you’re dead to me.”

 _Bold of you to assume we’ll be sleeping,_ Lance wants to say, but makes the wise decision to save his top-notch humor for another, more appropriate time. A smile finds its way on his face at the thought, anyway. “Oh, I won’t be forgetting a single moment, babe,” Lance chuckles, spreads his knees apart and thrusts into Keith’s palm, which is still gripping at the bulge in his surf shorts. “You have my word.”

Keith huffs, nostrils flaring—how can Lance be so composed when Keith is practically about to explode already? Swiftly, he moves his hand and begins unbuttoning his jeans; unzips them and tugs them just below his ass, freeing the obvious tent in his boxer briefs. Lance follows suit without missing a beat, wiggles out of his shorts and kicks them, leaving the article dangling on the arm of the couch. Fervently, Lance slips his fingers into Keith’s waistband, electricity surging through twitching fingertips, when he pauses to look up at Keith. The man in question wears a clueless expression.

“What are you waiting for, loverboy?” He rasps.

“Your consent, _mullet,”_ Lance snaps with an eye roll for emphasis, unable to suppress the smirk that crawls onto his lips. Keith sighs, chest emptying, and bucks his hips upward.

_“Touch me.”_

Lance doesn’t need any further persuading; doesn’t wait for second doubts or to wipe his feet on the welcome mat. His hands yank down Keith’s boxers in one swift motion, relishes in the sight of his exposed and semi-hard cock before tending to his own. He presses their members together and a simultaneous groan is pulled from both of the abdomens. Lance attempts to wrap one hand around the both of them, chest heaving at the long-awaited feeling of relief—he can’t wait. Skillfully, he builds copious amounts of saliva that soon drip into his palm like syrup, brings his sticky hand to engulf them. The ropy sensation makes Keith violently buck his hips up, desperate for more friction, more pleasure, more of Lance.

“Fuck,” Keith curses under his breath, followed by a quivering moan. Lance supports himself with his other hand pressed against Keith’s thigh behind him and pumps, the width of his palm and slender fingers combined barely able to fit around their shared girth. He moans, begins to bounce, thrusting up into his own fist.

“You too,” Lance pleads, and Keith understands. He spits barbarically into his hand a fills the untouched skin without a second of hesitation, immediately joining Lance’s pace. They move in sync, fluidly, occasionally changing from rapid pumps to slow and near torturous. Keith watches like he’s amazed, incapable of tearing his eyes away from their cocks pressed together. The only thing that averts his attention is the whine Lance lets slip from his mouth; he finds the vocal man with his other hand on his chest, rolling a hard bud between his thumb and index finger. Keith groans, cock twitching at the sight of Lance shamelessly pleasuring himself. He breaks his rhythm for a moment to run his thumb over Lance’s slit, evoking a powerful moan from the man.

 _“Ah,_ s-shit, Keith..!” Lance loses his posture, begins curling inward like it’s too much to handle, mouth wide open to spill sweet cries of delight. He trembles at the blissful feeling of his slit being thumbed at, smearing precum around the sensitive head of his cock, begins mechanically bucking his shaking hips upward into Keith’s finger. Keith, on the other hand, could get off just by watching Lance enjoy himself. He employs his other hand to continue his pumping, introducing it to the sticky, panting heat of mixed precum. His strokes are quick; strategic, twisting and tugging like how he usually would. Except this time, he’s jerking off _with the actual, very real, very attractive Lance._

“K-Keith, ‘m close,” Lance can barely stammer out, his weight becoming heavier on Keith’s thighs as he lets his muscles go limp, only focusing on his dick and his nipples. Keith, as if given a cue, releases his palm. “H-Hey—!” Lance whimpers, a violent thrust jolting from his hips in search of the lost contact. His cock is leaking onto Keith’s abdomen, twitching over and over again, about ready to burst. Keith shifts so he’s almost upright and shoves Lance down by the shoulders, the man’s back harshly plunging onto soft cushions. It’s adorable how his cock stands perfectly straight, Keith notes.

“What are you— _ha-ahh!”_ An incredibly moan erupts from somewhere deep in Lance’s gut, his head thrown backward and hips upward at the sudden, unfamiliar sensation of pure heat around his cockhead. A daring eye peeks down at his member to find it half-devoured by Keith’s mouth. Lance can only sit back and take it, his only freedom being to buck his hips into the wet cavity, an endless stream of broken whimpers dripping like honey from his gawking mouth. Keith musters all the professional techniques he picked up from some obscure online community, perhaps, and pours them mercilessly onto Lance’s weeping cock. Swirls his tongue around the head, flicks against his slit, takes a majority of the length in his open throat, and sucking on the way back up.

Lance loses it. _“Fuck,_ Keith! I-I’m cumming—!” The warning is given much too late. With one last vigorous, sharp thrust, frantic fingers gripping tightly at black curls, Lance’s hips lift up completely—he pulls Keith’s head down to meet him halfway. His orgasm tears through him like the doors of Heaven are opening for him, nothing but raw pleasure ripping through his gut. Thigh shaking and muscles cramping, Lance empties himself into Keith’s throat, who tries his best to swallow it all. Expectedy, white substance manages to leak from the corners of Keith’s lips, seeping like drool down his chin. The taste of Lance’s cum isn’t exactly like wine and ambrosia, but it’s bitter flavor alone is enough to make Keith’s eyes roll backwards.

Keith brutally sucks at Lance’s tender cock in attempts to get every last drop out of him, only awarded with a beautiful sob from the euphoric man in the delicate process of coming down from his high. Keith pulls off with a pop, forces a last gulp of the salty matter, wipes the mess around his mouth with the back of his palm. Lance collapses back against the arm of the couch, legs spread wide, displaying his softening cock, still twitching and absolutely soaked. Keith absorbs the sight into his memory bank for later.

Without allowing Lance another minute to calm down, Keith is crawling over him, caging his head with pale knees. Keith’s neglected cock, angry and red and throbbing, greets Lance’s lips hello with a drop of precum. “Make me cum,” Keith growls, both hands snaking their way into chestnut tuffs of hair.

The musky smell is overwhelming. Lance, panting still, sticks out his tongue to give Keith’s slit a single kitty lick. Keith’s hips buck. “Lance, quit— _mmph_ —quit p-playing around, dammit!” The desperate man whines. Lance feigns innocence, continues his intermittent licks, lavishing in the sight of Keith losing his fucking mind. He rests his palms on the back of Keith’s thighs, makes his mouth wide like he’s going for the home run—Keith digs his teeth into his lower lip with anticipation. Lance, that snake, wraps his lips around the just the head and sucks brutishly; viciously. Keith’s hips give out.

 _“F-Fuck, hah!_ Nn, Lance, y-you— _ugh_ —you s-sneaky bastard!” Keith wails, legs trembling uncontrollably like a leaf in the wind. He can only hold Lance’s head in place to at least guarantee he can’t escape, feebly thrusting into in search of more contact. Lance doesn’t give it to him. Instead, he gifts a flexed tongue drilling into his slit.

 _“Nhahh, fuuck!_ D-Don’t stop!” There’s no time for a warning. “Lance—!” Keith wants to drop his hips onto Lance’s face, wants to fuck his mouth loose and cum straight down his throat. He isn’t allowed that privilege, and instead digs his nails into Lance’s scalp and he feels the cum literally being _sucked out of him._ His cock twitches violently with the forced orgasm, the overstimulated head giving him the best orgasms of his life.

Finally, _finally,_ Keith yanks Lance’s head off of him and utilizes his free hand to furiously jerk himself off, spilling the last ropes of heavy cum into Lance’s open mouth. Blue eyes stare up at his wanton expression, revealing his fidelity when it comes to giving Keith the night of his life. Once sure that Keith is spent, Lance snatches the back of the man’s head and crashing their lips together in a less-than-pleasant kiss, pushes Keith’s cum into the owner’s mouth. Keith, struggling to free himself, accidentally swallows more than just own gulp of his own seed in the confusion of the moment.

Lance breaks the kiss looking victoriously, a shit-eating grin plastered on his messy lips. “You like the way you taste, baby?” He teases, wipes a bit of cum off of Keith’s mouth with his thumb before popping it back in the man’s mouth.

“I hate you,” Keith grunts, a newfound feeling of humiliation mixed with utter arousal stirring in his chest. He pushes Lance away and falls back onto the couch, broad chest heaving with the desperate need for air. He tries not to think about the sour taste of his cum still lingering on his tongue. Lance falls into him, chin propped on his chest, angel eyes staring mischievously up at Keith like he’s won something.

“You love me,” Lance taunts. It’s said as a joke—Keith recognizes this—but his breath gets caught in his throat anyway. The muted echo of music still thumbing in the backyard reduces to just vibrations. His heart clenches. He contemplates those three words for a moment, though there’s no need to; he already knows his answer. Keith brings a shaking hand to caress Lance’s freckled cheek, startling the both of them, thumb gliding between eyelid and cheek and lips. Softening indigo eyes scan over the features of the person who he’s been admiring from afar since forever. 

“Yeah,” sounds a faint voice. “I do.”

**Author's Note:**

> hello i stayed up to 1am to finish this please forgive any mistakes thank u goodnight


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